


False Kings

by MixterGlacia



Series: Soldiers Of The Fall [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Coping, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Song Lyrics, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-26 04:45:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13850376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MixterGlacia/pseuds/MixterGlacia
Summary: Locus finds that Wash is leaving notes hidden in the lyrics of a song once more. This time, it's far darker.





	False Kings

**Author's Note:**

> Song is False Kings by Poets Of The Fall

Locus knows something's a miss when he hears the rusty shriek of the brakes on Wash’s SUV that Monday morning. The freelancer should be at his job by now. Wash was well known to  _ never _ miss a day. 

 

The engine cuts off and the car door slams. Heavy work boots crunch over the gravel that makes up the driveway. Wash shoulders open the screen door, glancing around the cabin. (The habit of checking for threats still stuck with the stout man.) 

 

With no words, the older man strides over to his well loved coffee machine. He gets it set up to brew espresso, drumming his fingers on the countertop.

 

The stormy silence reigns until the shadows on the porch grow long, hints of starlight peeking through the blue sky.

 

“I lost my job.”

 

Locus glances up from the fruit he’s slicing for a pie. “...How?”

 

“Had a flashback. Thought my supervisor was the Director. Broke his jaw.” Wash grumbles, opening a tin of pain relieving gel. 

 

Locus makes his way over, taking the container before the freelancer can dip his fingers into it. The ex-mercenary drags a thumb over the surface of the balm to work into the shoulders of his boyf-

 

The thought skids off the rails. He had never considered Wash as a boyfriend, a partner, even with the clear relationship they had. Was Locus allowed to think like that? It makes his chest ache as he returns to the task at hand.

 

Rough fingers massage scarred, tense shoulders. The distinctive smell spreads throughout the cabin.

 

They don't speak for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

 

Wash has a whiteboard because his therapist insisted that it was a good idea for Wash to write his thoughts after an episode. The only times Locus saw it being used was when Wash woke from nightmares. (Often writing as if he was someone else.)

 

The words he finds this morning sends a stab of familiarity through his heart.

 

_ [Getting  _ _ lost _ _ singing their song. _

_ Caught up in,  _ _ all I've done. _

_ It's all _ _ I know _ _ , but not  _ _ what I need. _

_ Cut by my love, cut till  _ _ I bleed. _ _ ] _

 

Locus takes a photo of it on instinct. The next time he walks by, the board is clean. The ex-mercenary gets the feeling that this was just the start of something new.

* * *

 

 

A month passes, and Wash gets a new job. He’s there for two days before he’s fired again. The company refuses to pay him, and Locus knows all too well that the seething freelancer won't take the matter to court.

 

That night, Wash wakes up, referring to Locus as Maine for three hours.

 

The whiteboard gives up more when Locus gets up at noon to make pancakes for lunch.

 

_ [So I  _ _ want to run _ _ to your shelter  _ _ tonight. _

_ Run _ _ to your shelter  _ _ tonight. _

_ United in  _ _ silent _ _ resistance, _

_ Of bowing to  _ _ false kings. _

 

_ So let me  _ _ run _ _ to your shelter _ _ tonight. _

_ Run _ _ from this meaningless pantomime. _

_ I'll _ _ swallow my pride,  _ _ give up _ _ the pretense, _

_ Of bowing to _ _ false kings _ _.] _

 

Locus takes another picture and starts his motorcycle.

 

The tall man seeks out Tucker, because he knows the man's crude jokes are a thin veil for how deeply he cares about the freelancer.

 

The sim trooper gnaws at his thumb as he reads. “Loc’s this is like...this shit scares me.”

 

For once, Locus wholeheartedly agrees with Tucker.

 

“I need you to help me find a decent place for him to work. Some place that helps veterans. You know the town better.” Locus pleads softly. “I need- no,  _ Wash _ needs all the assistance we can offer.”

 

Tucker nods, eyes glinting with steely determination. “I've got this.”

 

* * *

 

 

It's a week before the next part shows up.

 

_ [ _ _ Bought _ _ their smiles, liquid and smooth. _

_ Took _ _ their words, for  _ _ the truth _ _. _

_ Edge of _ _ light and  _ _ shade. _

_ My broken  _ _ soul _ _ , once more  _ _ enslaved _ _ -] _

 

It trails back into the chorus, and Locus goes looking for a pen. He still has his notes from the first time Wash used music to relay a message. He already knows that the tone had taken a far darker tone this time.

 

 

  * ****Lost, All I've done, I know, what I need, I bleed.****


  * **Want to run, tonight, run, tonight, silent, false kings, run, tonight, run, I'll, give up, false kings.**


  * **Bought, took, the truth, edge of, shade, soul, enslaved, let me run, tonight, run, I see, I see, end.**



 

  
  


Alarmingly when Locus walks into the living room, there's more scrawled across the windows. His heart sinks like a stone.

  
  


 

  * ****When, cold blood runs, without grace, do I, soar? Need, your, new ways, end, wars, I'm yours.****


  * **Want to run to you-, run, tonight, united, kings, let me run, from, my pride.**



 

 

Locus abandons his notebook, going to search the bedroom. He can hear Wash's rattling snores from where he stands, fear lacing through him like puppet strings that compel him to check Wash's vitals. Regardless of the knowledge that the freelancer could, and would likely see him as a threat in Wash’s sleep addled mind. The ex-mercenary doesn't care if he gets busted up as long as Wash is safe.

 

The instant the door latch clicks, the snoring stops. Rough muttering is muffled by the bed clothes.

 

Locus goes to draw back the quilt and can't quite avoid a strike to his face. It's a glancing blow, but it still stings like a bitch.

 

Wash pauses, blinking a few times before squinting at Locus. Guilt sinks into his frame. “Shit, I'm sorry Loc’s…”

 

Locus shrugs lamely. “I'm well aware of the risks of startling you. Especially from sleep.”

 

“Oh...why _ did _ you wake me up?”

 

The ex-mercenary takes a breath to soothe the tremble threatening to creep into his voice. “The writing.”

 

Wash sighs in a way not in line with a man being confronted over dark thoughts. “Did I do more?”

 

Locus nods. “You moved to the windows this time.”

 

“Son of a bitch.” Wash grouses, dragging a hand down his face. “Sorry, I'll go clea-”

 

“I didn't wake you up to make you clean up. I'm worried that…” the tall man stills, biting his lip. “The words you underlined this time paint a... significantly darker picture than before.”

 

Wash stops mid-stride. He stares up at Locus, so intense it's overwhelming. The younger man looks away from the other. “...You think I'm gonna kill myself.”

 

There's no question to be found. A cold, hard statement of facts.

 

Locus holds out the notebook, still unable to meet Wash's eyes. 

 

The freelancer skims the page, shoulders slumping. “...Locus, you know I'd never go through with it.”

 

“What I know, is that nothing is certain. I... I love you too much to just ignore something like this.”

 

Wash's cheeks flush darker, head ducking down. “I-I mean, when you put it like that... yeah, it makes sense.” With a tiny snippet of static from his vodacoder, the older man adds, “Thanks for looking out for me. I love you too. Sorry if I’m bad at showing it.”

 

“You’re not bad.” Locus insists. “You show affection how you feel is right. You’re fine.”

 

Wash hesitates before holding out his arms to ask for an embrace.

 

Locus pulls the freelancer close, holding fast to him. Wash’s hair smells like the regulation toiletries that he must have stashed from the years of military service. Maybe he even ordered it online for the sake of consistency. The older man tucks his head under Locus’ chin, evening out his breaths. His ribs expand and contract smoothly under Locus’ palms.

 

It’s a nice sort of calm that settles over them after that lingering fear. Then Locus’ phone shrieks out some bland, royalty-free nonsense. 

 

Jolting, Locus extracts himself from their embrace. Glaring at the screen, it kindly informs him that Tucker is calling. Locus swipes the answer button, responding with a snappy, “What is it.”

 

_ “I found Wash’s dream job, and they’re hiring.” _

 

* * *

 

 

Leave it to Tucker to find the one cafe Wash didn’t know about. It goes by the title of Research Roasts. Apparently some big-shot Smithsonian scientist bought the building where the cafe was now located, then badgered her friend into taking his coffee house idea seriously. Low overhead in a high class part of town would do that to most people. Totally free overhead would get just about anyone to bite.

 

The real kicker for Locus was they only hired veterans. Especially ones suffering from mental issues after their experiences with the war. It sounds better with every word out of Tucker’s mouth.

 

They get Wash an interview with the promise that Locus would get to accompany him as well. Whatever it took to pull Wash from his most recent spiral was perfectly acceptable.

 

The place is what one expects at first. Posters with microscopes and technobabble, the table of elements and beakers. Science stuff. Yet when Locus takes a closer look, he also sees diagrams of many standard issue firearms from the war.

 

The man behind the counter is slender, with fluffy dark hair piled into a messy bun. He’s got what Locus likes to call ‘Felix Syndrome.’ Basically, when someone looks perfectly normal, attractive, or otherwise harmless. Yet something gives away a glimpse of something altogether dangerous, if not downright lethal. 

 

“You’re the ones that called, yeah?” Even his voice is perfectly soothing, but leaves a lingering sense of paranoia. Sibley (that’s what his name tag says.) nods towards the back. “Go on. Boss knows you’ll be dropping by soon.”

 

Wash mutters a nervous thanks, whereas Locus gives a simple nod to the mysterious cashier as they pass.

 

Everyone they pass by either has Felix Syndrome, or looks like they’d fit right in with Wash and Locus’ crowd. Tired eyes with exhausted smiles. They were, however, pretty clearly happy. Happier than Wash had been for many months.

 

They reach the door mentioned in the email and Wash’s hand hovers an inch or two away from the wood. He swallows around the lump in his throat. Locus takes his free hand and squeezes it. 

 

“I’m here.” He offers gently.

 

Wash knocks.

 

Instead of being told to come in, Locus hears the squeak of a chair, leading to uneven footsteps. The door swings open, and Locus’ spine stiffens.

 

Siris. Mason fucking Wu himself is looking back with an equally startled expression. 

 

“I-...Locus?” Siris whispers just loud enough for his former teammate to hear.

 

There’s a nod that straddles the line between polite acknowledgement and nervous tick. “Siris.”

 

Wash looks justifiably baffled, but Siris just brushes the hair from his eyes and beckons the two in. When they do, the door clicks shut.

 

“We worked together.” Locus answers Wash’s question before his partner can even ask it.

 

“Oh.” Is the only reaction Wash gives, taking a seat in the nearest chair.

 

“You…” Siris starts, trying to focus. “You must be Wash.” He extends a hand. “Mason Wu. I’ve been accused of running the show here.”

 

That does earn a weak chuckle from Wash, though it doesn’t get a smile. He does take Siris’ hand, shaking firmly. “Hope the rumors are true.” He offers dryly.

 

Siris smirks at that, sitting at the chair behind the plain desk. He’s still warily keeping Locus in sight. In all honesty, Locus is doing the exact same thing.

 

As they get down to brass tacks, Locus actually finds himself desperately hoping Wash gets this job. He knows Siris. Siris is the sort of man who would get through to the paranoid freelancer just by chatting. He was who taught Locus many of the essential tools that he used to keep Wash happy and healthy. 

 

Two wolves circling the sheep. Both know their own motives. They haven’t a clue of the other’s thoughts. 

 

They speak.

 

* * *

 

 

It seems to go well. From where Locus sits that is. He’s almost certain Wash got the job. Before they can go, Siris grabs Locus’ arm.

 

“I’m trusting you, Ortez.” he whispers sternly. “Don’t make me regret that.”

 

“Funny. I was going to say something similar.” Locus realizes that that may have come off as sarcastic. He scrambles, tacking on, “Wash means a very great deal to me, so-”

 

Siris snorts, patting Locus’ arm. “I know what you meant, kid.”

 

Locus’ cheeks darken with embarrassment. “I’m not  _ that _ much younger than you.”

 

“Ten years isn’t something to sneeze at.” Siris grins slyly.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Locus sees Wash trying to hide a matching grin of his own behind his palm.

 

It’s a good start.


End file.
